Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            “And being a Collateral is your full-time job.”

            I can’t even counter that, since Vania got me fired. “I dabble.”

            He nods thoughtfully, turning me around. New couples are starting to join us, none looking enthused—likely marched to the dance floor by our zealous wedding planner. My eyes meet Deanna Dryden’s; she held me down and stuffed my mouth with feathers when I was seven, disappeared from my life for ten years, then called me a Humanfucker in front of a crowd of dozens when we next crossed paths. We nod at each other politely.

            “Let’s see, Misery.” My name is pointed—at what, I’m not certain. “You were formally announced as the Collateral when you were six, and then sent to the Humans at eight. You had twenty-four seven protective detail—all Human guards—and yet over the following decade, you suffered several assassination attempts by anti-Vampyre extremist groups. All failed, but two came very close, and I’m told you have the scars to prove it. Then, when your term as the Collateral finally ended, you briefly returned to Vampyre territory, then chose to adopt a fake identity and live among the Humans—something Vampyres are forbidden from doing. If you were a member of my own family, I would never have allowed any of it. And now you’ve signed up to marry a Were, which is the most dangerous thing someone in your situation could do, with nothing to gain and no obvious reason—”

            “I’m flattered that you skimmed my file.” I bat my eyes up at him. He does seem to have the whats and the wheres, if not the whys. “I read yours, too. You’re an architect by training, right?”

            His body tenses, and he pushes me away for—no, he’s just whirling me around to the music. “Why is your father so remiss when it comes to your survival?”

            His blood really does smell nice. “I’m not some kind of victim,” I say quietly.

            “No?”

            “I agreed to this marriage. I’m not being forced into anything. And you—”

            His arm snatches abruptly around my waist, and he pulls me closer to avoid another couple. My front plasters against him, his scorching heat a shock to my cool skin. He really is foreign. Different. Incompatible with me in every possible way. It’s a relief when he puts some distance between us and we’re again comfortably apart. The thought of him already being in a relationship flits into my head once more, intrusive and unprompted, and I have to track down my abandoned sentence. “And you are putting yourself in the exact same situation.”

            “I’m the Alpha of my people.” His voice is hoarse. “Not a white-hat hacker who only miraculously made it to twenty-five.”

            Ouch, and fuck you. “What I am is an adult woman with agency and the tools to make choices. Feel free to, you know, treat me accordingly.”

            “Fair.” He hums agreeably. “Why did you consent to this marriage, though?”

            Have you ever heard the name Serena Paris? I nearly ask. But I already know the answer to that, and the question would only give him something to hide. I have a plan, a painstakingly drawn one. And I’m going to stick to it. “I like to live dangerously.”

            “Or desperately.” The music plays on, but Moreland halts, and so do I. We stare, a hint of challenge swirling between us.

            “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

            “You don’t?” He nods. Like he wasn’t going to say what’s coming next but doesn’t mind continuing. “The Vampyres don’t claim you as one of them unless they have something to gain from it. You chose to be among the Humans, but you had to lie about your identity, because you’re not one of them. And you’re definitely not one of us. You truly belong nowhere, Miss Lark.” His head dips closer. For a terrible, head-splitting second, my heart pumps with the certainty that he’s going to kiss me. But he bends past my mouth, to the shell of my ear. Through a landslide of what has to be relief, I hear him inhale and say, “And you smell like you know all of this very, very well.”

            That hint of challenge solidifies, heavy as concrete, into something cities could be built on. “Maybe you should stop breathing in so much,” I say, pulling back to look him squarely in the eye.

            And then everything happens much too quickly.

            The glint of steel at the corner of my view. An unfamiliar, rage-filled voice yelling, “You Vampyre bitch!” Hundreds of gasps, and a sharp blade making its way toward my throat, my jugular, and—